What to be? What to be? Liam's costume was a snap. The Superman costume in the previous post has become ordinary clothing--he all but wears it to bed. I knew this would happen when I showed it to him upon bringing it home. And that's OK. He gets so much joy out of being a superhero that I decided to get him another costume, this one complete with pecs and abs, for actual Halloween. With his blonde hair he makes a fabulous Mr. Incredible, even if he looks more like Dash.
Here, he pauses to have a word with Thomas the Tank Engine, his other passion. I love how this little boy will stop and chat with anyone. He's so much like his Grampa Zickefoose. Sometimes he ducks his head and looks up at me in a certain way and I'm sure I'm seeing my dad at 6.
Liam is teetering, at almost 7, on the edge of being too old for Thomas (but not quite realizing that yet). He's tiptoeing into superhero territory.
Mr. Incredible conquers Pokey the Springer. Photo coach in background. He was a frog. That's why he's all green. If he didn't have to take his costume off to pee, he'd wear it around the clock. I think it's good for a first-grader to feel invulnerable.
Liam looks so tuff here.
Phoebe came up with both her and my costume ideas this year. The older and wiser that girl gets, the more I come to lean on her for ideas. Out of the clear blue, she decided she'd be a Crazy Cat Lady. She concocted a costume consisting of my stinky old oilcloth Barbour jacket, some too-short pants, clunky boots, bad socks, baggy sweaters, and a wig we'd purchased so Bill could be Shaggy a couple of years ago. A little bad makeup on top of it, a cluster of stuffed cats, and she appeared at the Artists' Gathering, a phoenix full-blown from nothing.
So, when trick-or-treat day rolled around, Phoebs suggested that I should be a Crazy Dog Lady. Or, more correctly, I should dress more obviously. Over the past two years, I have undergone the transformation from a non-dog person to a Crazy Dog Lady. This is just my coming-out outfit. I bought these pants just to drive Bill nuts. But they came in handy come Halloween.
I made a sign with a puppy photo of Chet on it, and little tear-off tabs for the Boston terriers I was "selling." (see them in my pockets?) The sign said, " Boston Terrier Puppies for Sale. Parents, grandparents and great-grandparents on premises."
If Chet looks afraid, well, he is. He looks like a puppy who has just been bought by the person he was afraid might buy him. He looks like he thinks he's doomed to a lifetime of wearing hats and jackets, of being called Ookum Schnookums, and of having little boots strapped onto his feet when it's raining. Although I do buy him tasteful designer doggie polo shirts whenever I get within an hour of a Target, and I do moosh tasty beefy morsels into his Royal Canin kibble, and he has been known to sleep with his head on a down pillow, and he labors under a topheavy load of ridiculous nicknames, I can assure you that overall, he's content with his lot as the darling of the Crazy Dog Lady of Whipple. He was just embarrassed for me, that's all. Ecch, I'm embarrassed for me.